Last Christmas
by FountainPenPrincess
Summary: The first chapter of "Last Christmas". In the first chapter, it's just describing the Johnson's life without their mom in the picture. It's still a work in progress, but I hope you enjoy it.


Last Christmas...  
By: Taylor Troehler  
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The intoxicating aroma of lemons and angel food cake invades my nostrils as I walk through my kitchen. The fragrance of chicken battles with the livley scent of dessert in the small area. It's like a buffet where the pastries and ice cream are are right next to the turkeys chickens and hams...and you cant decide where to mooch from first. It was the last thing mom made before she died. It was for Aunt Peggy and Uncle Lou's annual Christmas Bash, but it never made it to their house. It still hurts when I walk into the CherryWood room. Before the car accident, it used to smell like hickory woodchips and Lemon Pledge...but now the only lingering smell is her award-winning cake. I'm not so sure if dad can smell it, but I know Josh can. He tries to mask his pained expression by always complaining about a bad odor coming from the sink or garbage can, but he knows as well as I do that it's the cake that he smells. He never complains to dad about it, and i wish he wouldnt complain to me, but he probably misses mom more than me. He won't get to have the experience of a mom taking to many prom pictures, or embarrassing him in front of his girlfriend, or choosing the "bake sale" as the school fundraiser. At least mom got to talk to me about the lovley little girl things that come pre-installed in being a girl before she left... Wonderful stuff really. So great to remember when you're sitting in math surrounded by guys.  
When I'm back in the warmth and comfort of my room, I get a chance to write on my laptop. The nice, black Toshiba that Dad got me two years ago for my birthday. It's on my mahogany desk in front of my window so I can write about what I see on the world below me. When I look out of my bedroom window, I see the sunset on acres of farmland. Golden crops and apple blossoms in a paradise that's miles away from the noises and troubles of the dark, dray, depressing city. I see the nice old lady that lives up the street feeding the stray kittens in her back yard. She had her son come over and help her build a little shelter for them. It's made of scrap metal and cardboard with an old pillow and a few dingy blankets inside, but the month old kittens probably think it's heaven. She's mostly the topic that I write about; a woman in her sixties who's in the best physical condition she could be, who looks like she doesn't spend an extra dime on herself, but uses her money to help everyone else. The kittens, her son, his two daughters, and sometimes us.  
Her name is Mrs. Mary Margaret, at least that's what she told us to call her when we were six, and we've been calling her that ever since. We moved out here when we were five 'cause dad took a job in the city and mom couldn't stand the monotony of suburban living. Every day she would jokingly complain how everyone had a pole stuck up their butt to try to get the bug that died in there. Mrs. Mary Margaret moved here a year later and she and mom became best friends instantly. She and mom would sit and talk about EVERYTHING for hours on one cup of tea. They'd talk about husbands,and boyfriends,and A., and Michaels, and sequins, and what sauce compliments muscles better, and "what I thought was boring then, I don't want to forget now." One cup of Lipton-Lemon Tea each usually lasted them from two in the afternoon to about five thirty in the evening. They'd be in the living room when Josh and I came home just chatting away about miscellaneous things that didn't make sense if you said it to yourself. Josh would complain, and if there was any tea left -there always was-, I would pour myself a small cup and sit with them. I wouldn't say anything, and they wouldn't ask anything, but I just sat there and enjoyed their conversation.  
Now that mom's gone, Mrs. Mary Margaret doesn't come over anymore. There isn't tea on the stove or anyone waiting for us when we come home. There's no chattering coming from the living room, and I can't hear muffled voices when I'm upstairs with my radio on. I don't make my own tea, beause there's no one to drink it with. Josh still complains, but because no one is home almost all day. Since dad works in the city most of the day, and doesn't come home until around ten-thirty, it's just me and him. I cook dinner that mom would cook and we put some in the microwave for when dad comes home. Speaking of which, tonight is chicken with sweet yellow corn, mashed potatoes, and coca-cola. All of which-except for, of course, the soda- is home grown and raised. Sometimes, if we got lucky in December, I would just heat up some vennison dad made. Deer jerkey, vennison, gravy, and baked potatoes. Yum!


End file.
